


it’s been a long way home

by nightcalling



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: “Lance corporal? You?” The boy looks him up and down, seemingly sizing him up. “Really?”Schofield narrows his eyes, suddenly irked.*Five times Blake chooses Schofield, and one time Schofield chooses Blake.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 18
Kudos: 273





	it’s been a long way home

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Schofield’s line “Why in God’s name did you have to choose me?” in the movie. Please accept my deepest apologies for the dubious factual accuracy throughout (historical, military, and medical…all of it).
> 
> Title is from Dan Owen’s “Hand That You Hold.”

_One._

The reinforcements weren’t supposed to arrive until next week, but word is Erinmore sent a message directly to the top requesting the timeline to be sped up. Judging by the large crowd gathered by the mess tent, it must’ve worked. Nothing gets people more excited around here than additional bodies to put between themselves and the next gunshot.

As Schofield sees it, however, every new soldier means another good person lost to the war. It doesn’t matter who goes first or when; it merely delays the inevitable. He trudges begrudgingly over with the rest of the unit that’s rushing by him.

A loud burst of laughter, accompanied by a clamoring of metal on wood, echoes out when he finally arrives at the tent. He picks up a tray and walks over to the cook that’s been abandoned by the unit in favor of a singular voice in the midst of the crowd.

“So, the good lieutenant’s sitting there, stripped down to his pants in the loo, and he’s about to take it out, yeah?” a bright voice booms. “But right when he does, the flock of birds takes a massive shit on him before flying back out the door. Poor bastard couldn’t wash the stink out for an entire week.”

As the tent erupts in more laughter, Schofield cranes his neck to locate the owner of the voice. Unfortunately, he can’t even tell his own men apart from the countless others, so he gives up on the effort and takes his tray over to an unoccupied table in the corner.

“Why didn’t he close the door, then?” a different voice suddenly pipes up.

“He did.” The bright voice from before pauses dramatically. “We just opened it when he wasn’t looking.”

The story probably isn’t even true, but Schofield finds himself grinning along with the rest of the rowdy crowd.

After the clamor subsides and returns to the normal bustling of hungry men coming and going, Schofield zones out and lets his hands take over the movements of eating. He’s always thankful for this brief period when he can shut his mind off and not worry about whether his actions will lead to someone’s death.

He’s about halfway through his potatoes when a figure appears in front of him. He focuses his eyes, takes a sip from his cup, then lifts his head.

“Hi.” It’s the bright voice from before.

“…Hello?” Schofield says, when the man, or boy, really, continues to linger there.

The boy has his own tray balanced dangerously in one hand. The other hand is under his head, propping his chin up. “What rank are you?”

 _Direct_ , Schofield notes. He nods down at the stripe on his arm. “Lance corporal.”

“Lance corporal? You?” The boy looks him up and down, seemingly sizing him up. “Really?”

Schofield narrows his eyes, suddenly irked. He’s been told by enough people to be “more friendly,” whatever that means, but to hell with that. Friendly isn’t going to cut it. “What were you expecting?”

The boy holds his hand up. “Hold your horses, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

This is a waste of time. Schofield picks up his tray of unfinished food and has one foot out the tent when a tug on his jacket jerks him back, nearly tipping his spoon onto the ground. He turns, tiredly.

“Hey, I really didn’t mean anything bad,” the boy is practically pleading. “I meant it as a compliment.”

A compliment? Schofield stares at the boy, his stance open instead of guarded like Schofield’s own. The sight sends an itch through his skin and into his bones. He stands up straighter. “Didn’t sound like one.”

“It was. I swear on it.” The boy crosses his heart and offers a small smile. “You seemed more interesting than the others, is all.”

Schofield has overheard himself described as many things—an uptight twat, having a rod up his arse, quiet like a ghost, etc., but never, _never_ as “interesting.”

“You must be mistaken,” Schofield says curtly, hoping to put an end to this conversation. He turns back around and picks up his pace.

Unfortunately, the boy doesn’t relent. He follows Schofield directly to the edge of the hill and settles down on the patch of dried grass next to where Schofield is sitting on a rock.

“Can’t we get to know each other?” The boy bites into a piece of bread, makes a face, then continues to chew noisily. “From one lance corporal to another.”

Schofield freezes just as he’s about to put another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. He’d been so busy trying to avoid conversation that he didn’t even notice the stripe on the boy’s arm.

 _Friendly. Be more friendly._ Schofield turns around to meet the boy head on. What he doesn’t expect to see, however, is an outstretched hand hovering in the space between them. The gold rings on the boy’s fingers make the boy’s hand look even smaller. Those hands look as familiar with the battlefield as the boy himself does.

“Well? Aren’t you going to shake my hand?” the boy urges with an eager look plastered on his face.

 _What a ridiculous person_ , Schofield thinks. _Absolutely ridiculous._

The boy’s hand is as soft as he imagined. Schofield tightens his grip and squeezes firmly before relaxing his fingers, but the boy doesn’t let go.

“Thomas Blake’s the name,” the boy says cheerfully. “You can call me Tom if you want.”

“Schofield,” Schofield offers. He tries to pull his arm back. “William Schofield.”

The boy— _Blake_ —still doesn’t let go, but wrinkles his nose instead. “Schofield? That’s a mouthful.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Schofield was planning to leave it at that, but he adds, “Call me Will.”

Blake frowns. “That’s no fun. I bet everybody calls you that.”

 _Nobody here calls me that_ , Schofield thinks automatically. He stays silent and waits patiently for his hand to be returned to him.

“I’ll call you Sco,” Blake suddenly announces, nodding once. “That alright?”

Schofield has a feeling that even if he told Blake no, that Blake would do whatever he wanted, anyway. “Sure.”

Blake grins, seemingly satisfied. “Sco. Nice to meet you.”

Schofield watches the blood return to his veins as Blake finally releases him and turns back to his food. He withdraws his arm and flexes his fingers. Funny; all of a sudden, his hand feels cold and incomplete.

~

_Two._

It’s only been a month since he met Blake, but everybody is already sending them on missions together. Sometimes, it’s for provisions; other times, it’s for basic reconnaissance and surveillance.

 _You two make a good team_ , they tell him. _You’re efficient and dependable._ Schofield hears the words they don’t say; _Blake’s the only one who’s willing to volunteer with you._

Today’s the first time they’re training new recruits together. Perhaps training is too generous a word—they’re merely leading the drills for the day. They take practice shots to stay sharp. They do push-ups. They run some laps.

Blake is oddly excited about the whole affair. “Do you think this is a test?” he asks, about three paces behind on the trail. “From the higher-ups?”

“What?” Schofield slows down until he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Blake. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Be nice if it was.”

“You think too highly of them. They’re keeping us occupied with the tasks they don’t want to do.” Schofield knows how it goes—nobody likes doing the thankless chores. He doesn’t mind, though. Running is a nice way to keep his thoughts empty. The other men tend to maintain a respectable distance and don’t bother to engage in small-talk with him.

That, however, has changed since Blake entered the picture. Blake keeps up and always manages to find something inconsequential to chatter about. Schofield knows that if Blake wanted, he could surpass him. He doesn’t know what it means that Blake is always three paces behind him like a shadow.

“Maybe you think too little of them,” Blake shoots back, undeterred. “They must’ve picked us for a reason.”

Nobody picks anybody for any reason, least of all for something as insignificant as a drill run. “Don’t read too much into it,” Schofield advises. Nothing gets accomplished wondering about things that aren’t realistic.

Blake shrugs effortlessly. “Still. It’d be nice if we were promoted. No more food runs.”

“They’re your favourite missions,” Schofield reminds him. Food runs mean more food, after all.

When they round the bend into the forest, Blake slows to a halt. “Did we make a wrong turn somewhere?”

Schofield stops and peers in the direction they came from. Not a single soul has followed them over. “We’ll give them a minute to catch up.”

Blake is already sitting down cross-legged underneath the largest piece of shade. Schofield is about to find his own place to rest when Blake scoots to the left and pats the vacant spot next to him.

“More than enough room for both of us,” Blake explains.

Schofield examines the rest of the forest. There are more than enough trees to go around. He walks over and sits down a foot away from Blake. At this close a distance, he can tell that Blake has plenty of stamina left in him for the rest of the run.

“Were you an athlete?” Schofield asks. “Before?”

Blake tilts his head, a gesture that tips him closer toward Schofield’s direction. “Why, do I look like one?”

“Not really.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Schofield tells Blake the truth: “You keep up.”

It was the right thing to say, because Blake scoffs. That’s the thing about Blake; he’s the only person Schofield knows who can scoff without sounding condescending.

“I kicked a ball around with Joe when I was a kid, but not much else,” Blake eventually says. “He took to it more than I did.”

Another thing about Blake is his ability to talk about the past without remorse. It’s fortunate that the war hasn’t taken that away from him yet.

“You know, if you were there, I’d like it more,” Blake admits. “Joe always won but you could help me beat him. We’re a good team.”

A team—that’s what they are now, aren’t they? Everyone’s been saying so, but when Blake says it, it sounds completely different. Others say it like Blake is taking on a burden. Blake says it like there’s nobody else he’d rather be with.

Schofield feels a smile pulling at his lips and a small flutter in his heart. “I’ve never played football before.”

“There’s not much to it, ‘specially if it’s just the three of us.” Blake turns to him and says easily, “You should come and meet everyone after. I’ll introduce you.”

A third thing about Blake: he plans for the future like it’s his birthright, as if the world owes it to him and he’ll take it without question.

Schofield knows it’s foolish, but; “Alright,” he agrees.

~

_Three._

The shot rings out like the crack of a whip and Schofield is stunned, frozen, pinned to place by the sight of Blake lying on the ground before him. Is he dreaming? No, he wouldn’t ever dream this. Is this a nightmare, then? Did his nightmares finally dig an escape out of his mind and manifest into reality?

“Sir?”

He kneels down and cradles Blake’s head in his hands. Breathing. He’s still breathing.

“Sir?”

He finds the site of the wound—over the right shoulder—and presses his hand over it. There’s no bullet lodged inside. It was a clean shot, in and out. Thank God. Thank God.

“Sir.”

He looks up.

“We’ve apprehended the man responsible,” the private informs him. “A deserter, it seems.”

Schofield racks his brain for the private’s name. Starts with a W. Willow? Wilcox? …Wilson. “Thank you, Wilson.”

Wilson looks between Schofield and the edge of the woods hesitantly. “The medic will be here soon.”

“Check the perimeter again,” Schofield orders. Anything to keep his men away for the time being. He knows how it looks, but his hand only grips Blake’s shoulder even tighter.

Wilson salutes and…Schofield stops paying attention the moment Wilson leaves his periphery.

Schofield stills his own breathing to focus on Blake’s. It’s strong, just like Blake himself. Blake is strong. He’ll be fine.

His men don’t return anytime soon. Neither does the medic. Schofield wraps as much cloth he has on him around Blake’s wound and hopes it’s enough.

After Schofield counts to one hundred for the second time, Blake opens his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Blake asks before Schofield can say anything, yell anything, like _You bloody idiot, you bloody fucking idiot, why did you do that, how could you do that, you idiot you idiot you idiot._

“You cannot be asking me that right now,” Schofield says instead. He’s really trying not to scream. Screaming won’t help anyone, least of all Blake, even if he deserves it.

“You’re alright, then,” Blake confirms. He sinks further into Schofield’s lap and groans. “Ow. Bastard got my shoulder.”

It doesn’t make sense. Schofield’s been running the memory over and over, trying to fill in the blank space. The shot came from the front. Blake was behind him. Blake shouldn’t have been hit. Where did he come from?

“You’re thinking too hard,” Blake accuses. He reaches up with his good arm and rests a finger on Schofield’s temple. “Be careful or you’ll go bald.”

Schofield sighs. “This is hardly the time for your jokes.”

“This is the perfect time for my jokes,” Blake disagrees. He lowers his hand and lets it sit over Schofield’s heart.

They’re always wearing so many layers, but Schofield can feel the heat of Blake’s hand as easily as he feels the sun on a hot summer day. “What are you doing?”

“Just glad this is still beating.”

Schofield stares down at Blake.

Blake meets his eyes. “It was worth it, then.”

 _Screaming won’t help_ , Schofield reminds himself. “Don’t do it again. Don’t you dare do it again.”

“I would do it again,” Blake says simply. “He only got my shoulder. It’ll heal.”

Schofield doesn’t know how to tell Blake that he might not have gotten the chance to make this decision if the bullet had landed in a different area. He watches the red bleed through the outermost layer of cloth on Blake’s shoulder and makes a vow: he’ll always go first, and he’ll never allow this much blood to bleed from Blake ever again, even if it kills him.

~

_Four._

Blake lies down, his helmet poised over his eyes, and is out cold in a record ten seconds. Schofield doesn’t blame him; he’d be the same if it weren’t so difficult for him to sleep, nowadays.

Still, he closes his eyes and tries to mimic it the best he can. Some shut-eye is better than none at all. He doesn’t get anywhere close to falling asleep when the courier comes by with his bag slung around his shoulders—the sack of dreams, everybody called it.

“Got a letter for Blake,” the courier says, holding the envelope in question up.

“He’s sleeping.” Schofield should probably be concerned with the fact that even the courier is now automatically assuming Blake is with him every moment of the day, but it’s hard to be bothered by it when he is, in fact, not bothered at all. That’s the real problem.

The courier passes the letter to him and leaves without another word. That’s another thing—mail is always ordered to be delivered directly to the recipient in question, but for some reason, Blake’s letters manage to find their way to Schofield first.

Schofield shakes off the thought and peers at the front of the envelope. He wonders if it’s good news. He hopes it’s good news.

He tucks the letter into his pocket and lays his head back against the tree.

After another few minutes of silence, a foreign presence hovers to their right. Schofield blinks his eyes open and notices Blake stirring awake.

“Pick a man,” Schofield hears. It’s not directed at him. “Bring your kit.”

He closes his eyes again. The grass smells sweet, and the breeze is light and comfortable on his face. Today is going to be a good day.

~

_Five._

They tell him he’s lucky to get away with his hand in one piece, with just a scar down the middle of his palm and nerve damage in his finger joints. He’s inclined to agree; as he told Blake before, it’s the wrong hand, after all. For _that_ , and for most things.

What he doesn’t agree with is their assessment that he was luckier than Blake. Blake, who needs a blood transfusion, stitches all over his stomach, and a full month at minimum before he can approach normal functioning. Blake, who nearly bled out to death because Schofield failed his vows and broke his promises. What the hell was he good for if he couldn’t even keep one person safe?

So, there they are, Blake unconscious for the majority of every single day, and Schofield rendered useless on most tasks due to his hand. _You two make a good team_ , they kept saying before; now, nobody even looks at them twice. Is it because they pity them or because they no longer care? Schofield suspects it’s a mixture of both.

He keeps himself busy with whatever menial tasks that are still offered him. Unfortunately, there aren’t many things one can do with one hand, even if it is the preferred one. He cleans the tables, cleans the floors, cleans the rifles if he can manage.

He doesn’t mind. The chores keep his thoughts empty, just like running did before. The only difference is that Blake isn’t nearby to be his shadow.

He visits Blake when he’s allowed. They’re going to offer Blake a temporary leave when he fully wakes, and Schofield wants to be there to deliver the news.

Every day feels like two, and every night feels like four, even with the sun going down later and later. Schofield runs in the morning, cleans in the afternoon, and in the evening, takes his food and eats it on the rock by the edge of the hill if he has the appetite. Then, he turns in for a sleepless night and wakes up in the morning to do it all over again. Rinse and repeat.

Two weeks later, Blake finally opens his eyes for more than a minute. Schofield drops everything he’s doing and rushes to the tent.

“He’s still very weak,” the medic explains. “But he should be able to hold a short conversation.”

After the medic leaves, Schofield asks Blake, “Do you know where you are?” _Do you know who I am?_

Blake opens his mouth but no words come out. He raises his hand, just a few fingers before dropping them again.

“What is it?” Schofield steps closer and leans down, looking around at the items scattered on the table next to them. There’s Blake’s cracked watch, the tags, the bloody photograph. “Do you need something?”

Blake lifts his hand once more, this time finding his way to Schofield’s chest. It rests there with a heavy weight.

“It’s still beating,” Blake manages to get out. He smiles wearily, very briefly before it fades, because it must take all of his energy.

Schofield doesn’t stop his tears in time. They fall down his cheeks and onto Blake’s hand. It’s warm, just like that day.

“You get to go home after you’ve recovered,” Schofield tells him. “Not for long, but at least two weeks.”

“What about you?” Blake asks. He keeps his hand where it is.

“I’ll be here.” Schofield doesn’t need to go home as long as he knows that Blake is safe in his. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen while you’re away.”

Blake regards him with tired eyes. Then, he nods.

Schofield, relieved, relaxes his shoulders and lets out the tension he didn’t realize he was holding inside his body. He immediately feels exhausted and takes a seat on the bench next to the cot. He sits there until Blake falls back asleep again. It doesn’t take long.

Another two weeks later, after Blake is able to walk without painkillers again, Blake finds him and tells him, “I’m not going home.”

At first, Schofield thinks he’s heard wrong. “What did you say?”

“I’m not going home,” Blake repeats. “I’m staying here.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Schofield shakes his head. “You’re going home. You need to go home.”

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ Because—” Schofield breathes in. “Are you really asking me this? Have you hit your head? You finally get to go home. Not everybody gets the chance to go home. Do you hear me?”

Blake shrugs. “You went home and told me you never wanted to go back.”

“That’s different.” He should’ve never told Blake that. “That’s me. That’s not you. You need to go home.”

“Why?” Blake asks again.

“Because it means you’ll be safe!” Schofield yells. He startles when he registers the echo of his words in the wind. When did his voice get so loud? He exhales and collects himself. “At least for two weeks, you’ll be safe. Go home and see your mother.”

“Seeing mum would be nice,” Blake agrees. “But if that means leaving you here by your sorry self, then I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

“Are you absolutely mental right now?” Schofield accuses. The medic said Blake was fine other than the wound to the stomach, but Schofield is starting to think that Blake might have a concussion as well.

Blake grins. At least he seems to be enjoying this turn of events. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“And whose fault do you think that is?” Schofield groans before dropping gracelessly onto the ground.

Blake lowers himself down to a crouch next to him. He glances over at Schofield a few times before saying again, in a quieter but no less decisive voice, “I’m staying.”

Schofield sighs. His fight is all gone; he doesn’t know how Blake does it. “I know.”

“Cheer up,” Blake says. “We’ll be alright. And we’ve got the scars to prove it.”

~

_+1_

Germany surrenders on a Monday, and suddenly, his uniform loses all of its weight. His kit and rifle are packs of air on his back, his helmet a cloud over his head, and it’s not even the kind that brings rain with it.

Talk of being shipped home immediately stirs up amongst the men. Rumors of it happening the very next evening make their way down to every nook and cranny of the trenches. Schofield knows that if everybody still had a brain left, that they’d all realize that was more than impossible, but he doesn’t begrudge them the hope. It’s been so long since any of them allowed themselves to hope, after all.

Schofield expects Blake to run off with the rest of the men in drunken cheer and joy, not remain sitting on the ground without the slightest indication of celebrating. In fact, Schofield doesn’t think he’s heard Blake say a single word since the news broke.

He sits down next to Blake on the tree stump. They had to cut it a few weeks ago to make more firewood. He didn’t miss it before, when they did the deed, but now, his heart aches for its absence.

“Talk to me,” Blake whispers when Schofield lays a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Is this really happening?”

Schofield takes in the mud caked into Blake’s hair, skin, and boots, and lets out a smile upon realizing that Blake won’t need to look like this ever again. Blake’s hands will slowly lose their callouses and return to the softness that Schofield felt on his own palm the first day they met.

“Yes, I believe it is.” Schofield looks down at his own hand, the one he can no longer feel anything tangible with. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, once he leaves this place. He’ll return to the home he’d long buried and the life he’d long forgotten, and do his best to reestablish some semblance of normality. He’ll read his books and buy his groceries and dust the windowpanes without the heavy burden of bombs falling from the sky. He’ll hug his sister and play with his nieces and find a nice girl to spend the rest of his life with. He’ll lie on his bed at night with the stench of corpses in his nose, and the taste of iron in his mouth, and the bile of milk in his throat, and he’ll leave Blake behind, and—

He isn’t too certain what normal is, anymore.

The pressure of Blake’s hand over his own on Blake’s shoulder brings him back. It’s warm, just like that day.

“What are you doing?” Schofield asks, drawing his fingers closed into a loose fist. The war is over, but that doesn’t mean it’s allowed, all of a sudden. Not all actions have been pardoned.

“I—” Blake pulls his knees flush against his chest. “I’ll miss you.”

It sounds like a confession meant for a priest, and Schofield knows he isn’t qualified to hear it.

“And I you,” Schofield says.

Stars are beginning to hang in the sky as Blake remains still in the backdrop of the night. Schofield wishes he had a camera so he could take a photograph of this moment.

If they’re not going to see each other again, then he might as well make the most of it.

“Blake.” Schofield waits until Blake turns, then, after a dash of courage and a leap of faith, leans in and presses his lips to Blake’s. He keeps his eyes closed, preparing for Blake to push him away, to berate him and stammer _have you gone mad_ , but Blake parts his mouth and draws Schofield closer until Schofield thinks they’re going to melt into one. The applesauce from that evening’s supper is sweet on Blake’s tongue and Schofield lingers in Blake’s scent. It’s enough to wash out the stench, the iron, the milk.

Of course.

“I can’t wait to meet your mother,” Schofield says when they part.

Blake stares back at him, disbelief, confusion, and doubt mixed generously in with the happiness hidden behind his eyes. Schofield waits for him to catch up; Blake was never really that far behind him, after all.

“Don’t you want to see your family again?” Blake finally asks.

He does, and he will, eventually—but they aren’t the only family that he has, anymore. Schofield smiles. “Sometimes, it’s easier to not go back at all.”

His scar isn’t so noticeable when he’s holding Blake’s hand.


End file.
